Next time, we’ll be singing in the rain

Thursday

Jan 23, 2014 at 3:15 AM

Hard work, winning back the trust of your dog.

A few weeks ago, I threw on my coat and grabbed Pepper’s leash off its hook on the wall. Pepper, who had been resting on the couch in our living room, sprang to life at the onset of this familiar routine and approached me with great enthusiasm. She stood on her hind legs and balanced her front paws on my knees as I connected the leash to her collar. She wagged the little stub where her tail used to be — she’s a mix foxy-schnauser — and let out a friendly howl that said, “Leeeeeet’s go!” Time for a walk around the oil’ neighborhood.

Ready to go, I reached for the handle on our side door and began to twist. That’s when I looked out the window for the first time in hours.

It was pouring rain outside. Hard. Or haaaahd, as some of us in Maine might say. Our outdoor light was on, so in the illuminated puddles in our driveway, I could see numerous fat drops plopping fast and furious.

Oh, I thought, quite surprised. I had not seen the forecast and didn’t realize that we had been expecting rain and that it had started.

I looked down at Pepper, whose phantom tail was still wagging. She had an eagerness in her eyes that said, What’s the holdup?

For some reason, maybe even a good one, I figured I should not be bringing our mid-shin-high dog out in the pouring rain. Pepper seems a little averse to messy weather. Our previous terrier, Molly, loved the snow, and would frolic in whole white clouds of it. Pepper, though, stands on our sidesteps and looks at a layer of newfallen snow with a tentative uncertainty. Also, our neighbor, Karen, who watches Pepper during the day while we’re away, likes to swaddle Pepper in a thick blanket whenever bringing her from her house to ours in frigid weather.

That’s one reason I began to tiptoe back from the idea of taking Pepper for a walk in the heavy downfall. In the interest of full disclosure, though, I also need to admit that I wasn’t keen on a wet Pepper whipping around our house afterward and drying herself not on the towel I’d fetch but on our furniture instead.

I started to elaborate, as though Pepper could understand everything I was saying, well beyond the few words she actually knows, such as her own name, good girl, stay, sit and others.

Like walk. That’s her favorite one.

I bent down and detached her leash from her collar. I rubbed her ears with love and affection. As if that would help. I regarded the look of confusion on her furry face — disappointment had not yet set into her little Ewok eyes — and apologized and meekly returned her leash to its hook.

Then I made my second mistake — the first, of course, being that I did not look out the window before thinking it was a fine evening to take the dog for a walk. Here it is: I grabbed an umbrella and still went on my walk. I could feel Pepper’s eyes on me as she stood in our living-room window and watched me disappear down the street.

When I returned half an hour later, soaking wet but with my nightly exercising accomplished and my head all clear, I discovered the whopper of a mistake I made. I sat down next to Pepper on the couch and started to pet her, but she jumped away and went and sat with my daughter, Madeline, across the room. She nestled into the corner of Maddie’s plush chair, as though to try to get even farther away from me. I adore this four-legged family member of ours, and it crushed me to know I disappointed her.

I’ve been trying to get back in Pepper’s good graces ever since.

All of this reminds me of Shannon, the collie that my family and I had while growing up. A couple of times, when we went on a family trip, Dad would bring Shannon to the veterinary clinic to stay. When we got home, Dad would drive to the clinic and pick Shannon up ... and on the ride home, Shannon would turn his head completely away from Dad and look out the window at the scenery passing by. He would not look my father in the eye.

Judging by the evidence, I’ve made some progress with Pepper since. When we go for walks, she’s a loyal companion, trotting by my side and enjoying the sights and scents. She sleeps alongside me when I nap on the couch and rests at my feet while I sit and read or watch movies or the Patriots. When I pull into the driveway after a day at work, she stands at attention in the window and throws her head back, with her nose pointed to the ceiling, and fires off a string of welcoming barks. But still. There’s something missing. I can tell she still remembers The Walk That Never Happened.

“She’ll come back around to you,” my wife, Valerie, told me. “I looked this up on the Internet and read that it takes a little time for dogs to come back around again when it comes to stuff like this.”

Here seems as good a place as any to add that I did take Pepper for a walk later that stormy night. I felt so bad — she seemed so hurt — that I took her for a brief walk to the corner of our street and back. All the same, though, the damage had been done.

But I’ve figured out how to get back into Pepper’s heart.

Through her belly.

I’ve become the Treats Guy.

I’m keeping a steady supply of puppy-snacks on hand and I’m feeding them to Pepper every time I come home. At first, I’d take a handful of beef-flavored or chicken-flavored chews and would hide them around our living room — at the edge of the couch, next to the DVDs underneath the television, on the head of a small statue that my father-in-law gave Valerie for one of her birthdays. Pepper would then sniff around the room, track down each bite and devour it — in other words, do what terriers are born to do.

Lately, though, I stand at our kitchen counter, pull a treat out of the bag, hold it out and call to Pepper. She looks up, spots the morsel between my thumb and pointer finger, and perks up her ears. Then I lob the treat, and it sails from our kitchen, through our dining area and onto our living-room rug. Pepper dives at it and chomps with relish.

Shameless, you say? An obvious and manipulative bid for my dog’s affection? A desire to return to the heroism my dog once saw in me?

If you have to ask, or even go there, then you’ve never had a dog.

Shawn P. Sullivan is the editor of the Sanford News. He can be reached at ssullivan@sanfordnews.com.